


A Few Changes Here and There

by EntreNous



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Interior Decorating, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-11
Updated: 2005-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why do any of the walls have to be knocked down?” Xander asked plaintively. “I thought we liked all of the walls. That’s why we bought them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Few Changes Here and There

**Author's Note:**

> Written for flaming_muse for fandom_charity. She asked for Spike/Xander, something domestic.

Xander had always assumed that the tough, hard to believe portion of his latest relationship was the part about him and Spike even getting together in the first place. But he had to admit to himself that the stranger tale by far was what happened when he and Spike were really together, settled, and stable, and finally ready to move in with one another. 

He’d pretty much thought that most of his adventures were behind him, whether of the slaying variety or of the coming out variety. When he’d given Buffy and Willow the double-bombshell -- him batting for the other team _and_ having a serious relationship with Spike -- Buffy had stared at him with her lips parted in confusion. But then she’d smiled winningly and said she thought that Xander being with Spike was way less freaksome than him dating Cordelia back in high school. Willow waited for Buffy to speak, but then she took the immediate-reassurance route, hugging him right away. Of course, the way she looked when she backed off, her eyes warm and filled with emotion, but her lips in an almost-smirk of told-you-so . . . well, Xander couldn’t help but wonder if she probably could have given him the low down about him and Spike way before he’d realized what had been going on. 

So everything on the relationship and domestic horizon was forecasting calm, and, after a fashion, kind of normal. The mundane details of putting bids on houses, dealing with realtors and contractors, and negotiating through the headache of the closing had been undertaken and dispatched in a relatively painless way. And now, thanks to a little creative and bureaucratic finagling on Willow’s part (it was a little scary how she came up with Spike’s legal documents quick like a bunny), he and Spike were now the proud owners of a 3 bedroom, 2.5 bathroom house. 

Their new place stood on a shady tree-lined street that reminded Xander of the neighborhoods he’d seen in picture books and movies when he was a little kid. It came with a gently-sloping lawn (which in turn came with a kid two houses down who’d already cut them what he promised was the deal of the decade for the services of his lawn mowing racket), and it was cozy and peaceful and utterly, wonderfully boring. And that was exactly how Xander wanted it.

***

“I’m so ready for absolutely _nothing_ to happen,” he declared on the phone that night to Willow. 

In the grand tradition of moving-in days, he and Spike had ordered pizza and eaten it crashed out on the couch, peering at the boxes piled about them in dazed exhaustion. 

“Once we get unpacked, and barring some radical but oddly familiar development like our town sinking into a crater, we’re good to stay put for a while.” Spike passed him noiselessly in the carpeted hallway, wandering upstairs while Xander looked after him fondly. “Get ready for absolutely dull updates, Will. No crazy demons of the week. No huge world-in-peril problems. In fact, I’m thinking about sending one of those stupid holiday newsletters just to show everyone how dull our lives are. I might even take to printing across it in 48-point red and green font ‘Absolutely nothing is new in the Spike and Xander Harris household! Again!’ ”

“Don’t say _that_ ,” Willow admonished him. “First, you know better than to tempt things that get tempted by predicting that nothing exciting will happen. And second, life just has a way of getting twisty and turn-y when you least expect it.”

“That’s what you think,” Xander said, pointing his finger at the phone as though Willow could see him. “I’m already planning on boring you to tears next week with the details about how we unpacked the boxes and then sat around saying ‘Aren’t you glad the boxes are unpacked?’ ”

“Maybe the cat will have done something wacky,” Willow proposed.

“Nah, that’s highly doubtful. She’s already hiding under the bed, as per usual. I’m not even sure if she gets that the bed is somewhere _else_ , as long as she has her familiar box-spring ceiling. Seriously Willow, dullest people in your life now. Just you wait.”

***

Of course, telling Willow and telling himself that things to come would strictly be of the non-exciting variety, Xander hadn’t counted on one very important factor. And that factor was a bored former killer and carouser now focused entirely on -- and becoming increasingly obsessed with -- the composition of his new living space.

“What the hell is this?” Xander asked in amazement when he returned home for their second night in the house. He’d left in the morning with Spike sitting bleary-eyed and hair mussed on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest and toes peeking out from his flannel pajama bottoms, watching _Ellen_ and drinking coffee. Spike had mumbled something about pots and pans, so he’d anticipated coming home and making sense of how Spike had unpacked the kitchen, maybe followed by a little goading into setting up the study. But what he returned to was kitchen stuff still boxed up nice and tight, and long curling strips of paper dangling off of the walls of the new living room.

“Well, what did you expect?” Spike asked. From the looks of things, Xander was inclined to guess Spike had started the project by ripping off the paper with his bare hands. “That whole blooming roses and garden gates motif was horrible. I can’t live like that.”

Xander blinked at the remnants of paper, glue, and the cross-hatching of too many chipped coats of ugly paint on the walls, and couldn’t come up with a reply that wasn’t made up entirely of exclamation points.

“ ‘Sides,” Spike continued as though Xander had conceded the point and was now merely acknowledging the crowning moment of the argument. “Just makes it a bit easier for to knock down that wall.”

“That wall cannot be knocked down!” Xander announced with authority, somewhat relieved at finally latching onto a point of protest. “It’s a load-bearing wall.”

“Right.” Spike crossed his arms and frowned at the wall. “What about that one over there then?”

“Well, I guess it _could_ be, but --”

“That one will have to do, I suppose,” Spike sighed. 

“Why do _any_ of the walls have to be knocked down?” Xander asked plaintively. “I thought we liked all of the walls. That’s why we bought them.”

Spike regarded him with a mixture of annoyance and affection. “Because we need to create more of an experience of flow between the downstairs rooms.”

While Xander gaped at that idea, Spike jotted down a few notes on a pad of paper and then pulled out an automatic tape measure and headed for the den. “I’m just making a few changes here and there,” he remarked as he left the room.

“So it’s just the dining room that you’re doing over. Right? Spike?” Xander called out. “I really, _really_ hope silence means yes,” he mumbled when there was no reply.

***

Of course it wasn’t only the dining room. Every day the grand plans to make “a few changes here and there” seemed to get more and more complicated. 

A week and a half after they’d moved in, Xander stumbled into the bathroom in the morning to find that the sink had been yanked out of the wall, even though the new model that Spike had finally located by phoning specialty stores in a total of four states hadn’t yet arrived.

“Where am I supposed to brush my teeth?” Xander asked, clutching at the doorframe for support while Spike breezed past him into the room. “Wait, don’t answer that, because I know there are other sinks in the house, but this, this is supposed to be the master bedroom bathroom, and there should be a sink in _here_.” He looked at the hole and the chipped plaster, and tried to remain calm. “Just tell me one thing. Why are you doing this to me?”

“I needed to make way for the Moroccan tiles that are being delivered later today,” Spike said absently, running his hand over the wall as though he was determining something important by touch.

“For the floor?” Xander asked in confusion.

“No, for the _walls_ ,” Spike said as though that was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Xander slunk downstairs to brush his teeth.

***

A few days later Xander found that the wall-to-wall carpeting that he’d liked so much on chilly mornings had been stripped from the floors. He wiggled his now-cold toes and made a distressed noise that Spike overheard.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Spike said in an impatient voice as he moved to stand by Xander’s side. “But the wood floors will make the entire space seem more open, and the grain will look great once it’s stained properly. And after all, this will be better for your allergies. I’ve been reading that those carpets hold dust and particles to beat the band.”

“I don’t have any allergies,” Xander protested.

Spike shot him a meaningful look. “Not yet, you don’t.”

***

They’d been moved in for a month when Xander took to calling Willow on the phone from work rather than home so that he didn’t have to whisper about the latest renovation improvisation. “I can’t eat breakfast in a kitchen that has eight different stripes of pale yellow on the wall across from the table. It makes me all queasy.”

“So eat in the dining room,” Willow suggested. Xander thought he heard the tapping of computer keys but when he cleared his throat it stopped abruptly.

“You don’t even want to hear why I can’t eat in the dining room right now.”

“The living room?” Willow asked.

“Listen to me,” Xander said slowly, gripping the phone hard. “I can’t go anywhere in that house without tripping over clumps of fabric swatches. The project of redoing the wood floors has somehow merged with the project to make the downstairs space _flow_ , and now I have to build a wood ‘outside room,’ or, as we used to say in Sunnydale, a _deck_.”

“But you have to admit, Xander, it sounds like everything will look so nice when it’s all finished.” Her tone was likely meant to sound soothing, but Xander could hear in her voice the snicker just waiting to burst out.

“You cannot imagine how insane our home life is right now,” Xander hissed into the receiver. “Did you know there were a bazillion shades of paint that the normal person just groups under the color category ‘white’? A couple of days ago he laid them all out in front of me and asked me my opinion on which one he should use for the foyer and hallway. But after going blind from looking at samples of ‘ecru’ and ‘eggshell’ and ‘pale’ and ‘Westchester cream’, I could not tell one from the other.” He ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. “And there’s no way to tell what crazy decoration or wall-gutting scheme he’ll come up with next.”

“Look, try to set up something where he tells you in advance what he’s going to do,” Willow advised. 

“I tried that. He said it would disrupt the organic process.”

“The organic process,” Willow repeated. “When did he say that?”

“Just the other day when he was prying the fake wood paneling off of the walls of the den and getting ready to staple gun fabric over a board to make a valance for the windows.”

Willow giggled. “You know, I never thought it would be said, but I think Spike is the one who wears the tool belt in your family.”

“Go ahead and laugh it up,” Xander said coolly. “He’s making up a step-by-step photographic account of the entire process that he said he wants to show you when you visit.”

The sound of something crashing to the floor on the other end of the phone did, actually, make him feel slightly better.

***

But to be fair, in the midst of work on the wiring for the wall sconces, and conversations about the amount of attention a homeowner had to pay to the issue of curb appeal, there were some really good moments. 

Like the time when Spike decreed the bedroom finished and they spent much of the weekend inside of it. Of course, that was much to the consternation of their anti-social cat, who hurriedly relocated to a spot underneath the couch downstairs as it became abundantly clear that her caretakers were going to carry on making yowling and gasping sounds for far too long.

Or the time when Xander returned home as a surprise for lunch, bearing Chinese food and bags of fresh blood, only to find Spike staring thoughtfully at the just-finished walls of the glassed-in sun-porch. They had blinds up to block out the rays, but enough indirect light seeped through to give a warm glow to the blue paint Spike had chosen. He looked impossibly young as he surveyed his work, and impossibly still in the break in action of weeks and weeks of relentless always-doing. And as Xander crept closer, he saw the dab of light blue paint that had somehow smeared itself on Spike’s nose matched his eyes exactly. 

Xander put everything down in a kind of fog and stepped up to wrap his arms around Spike’s waist from behind. They regarded the sky-blue wall together for a few minutes in silence. “It’s really nice,” Xander finally said gruffly, and Spike didn’t answer but instead curled back against him like a contented cat. 

***

But then there were other times that were not so great. Like when they had finished taking a long shower together, a shower full of much exciting build up in the form of sloppy wet make-out sessions and teasing action with both soap and bath gel. But then as Xander was pulling Spike towards the bed, Spike murmured that he’d be there in just a moment.

When Xander woke on the bed an hour later, still in his towel on top of the covers, he stomped around until he found Spike seated nude at the computer table in the study, looking at different types of shower fixtures online. Xander had said nothing, but went to bed in full sulk mode. 

The bedroom didn’t see any action for over a week.

***

“How can you afford all of this renovation and redecoration stuff?” Buffy asked curiously. She’d gotten the sporadic updates from Xander, but Willow’s more detailed account of the installation of the kitchen island complete with vegetable-rinsing sink and range top had piqued her curiosity. “I mean, sure, you’re probably getting a carpenter-guy break on the prices -- I’m guessing that there’s some kind of secret construction-brother he-man club handshake that opens the door to bargain rates. But still, it has to add up.”

“Have you forgotten that it’s Spike who’s dealing with most of the contractors?” Xander asked. “Imagine factoring in Spike-type charm, along with Spike-type intimidation tactics, and what you’ve got is materials and work that we’re getting for a song.”

“I have _got_ to come visit you and see all of this,” Buffy exclaimed. “Don’t worry; I’ve already been warned about Spike’s scary picture book thing, and not even the prospect of sitting through that boredom fest can turn me away. Willow said you have stained glass in the entryway, and that you’re going to have a hot tub out in the outside room, and --”

Xander groaned. “Listen, I’ll tell you what I told Willow, and Andrew, and Faith. Spike keeps saying that of course _everyone_ can come to see the house, but only when everything is finished.”

“But when will it _be_ finished?” Buffy asked in exasperation. 

***

And wasn’t that the question that had preyed on Xander’s mind since he’d spied the first strip of wall paper dangling from the plaster?

“When?” he asked Spike that night. He had come straight upstairs to the bedroom when he got home a little on the late side, still carrying his briefcase full of papers and contracts. And even though he’d been getting ready for the entire duration of the drive back to ask Spike this, he was a little surprised at the urgency that came through in his voice when he spoke aloud.

“When what?” Spike asked, peering over the glasses he now wore when he was reading books (or, in this case, combing through stacks of house and garden magazines and catalogues). He laid aside what he’d been glancing at, and sat up on the bed.

“When will all of this -- the painting, the refurbishing, the whole big shebang of house-changing-craziness -- when will it be finished?”

Spike took off his glasses and looked at Xander, tilting his head to the side in concentration. “I’m only doing all of this nonsense for you, you know.”

“For me?” Xander asked. “Me?” He looked to his right, to his left, and then behind him just to make sure Spike wasn’t talking to someone else. “ _Me_ me, you mean?”

“Of course you, you dolt,” Spike replied. 

“But I don’t want any of this,” Xander said. Spike looked surprised, but then carefully composed his expression to something more neutral, and Xander hastened to say more. “I mean, it’s great. It’s amazing, the stuff that you’ve done. I had no idea you could make the place look so fantastic, and it’s seriously not even the same house that we bought. And hell, the place’s resale value has probably shot through the roof what with all of the improvements and extras and detail work.” He took a breath, rubbed the heels of his palms against his face and dove back in. “But Spike, I don’t want . . . the dust, and the mess, and the stress, and the negotiating, and the rearranging . . . I want you, and me here, us together, things going normally.”

Spike snorted, but his face went soft and warm. “You’re not very much for the complications and fanciness, are you, love?”

“Not so much,” Xander agreed. He moved closer, and discarded his briefcase, jacket, and tie on to the chair. When he eased onto the mattress, and patted his hand against his chest in a kind of bed-cuddling signal, Spike shifted over right away to lay his head against his shoulder. 

“I suppose we could wrap everything up that’s happening now, call it finished,” Spike said in the low voice that always gave Xander the good kind of shivers. 

“If that’s cool with you,” Xander said, exhaling lightly when Spike very quickly unbuttoned his shirt.

“Think I could manage,” Spike said. “Besides,” he whispered as he leaned forward, sliding his mouth along Xander’s neck and moving up further to brush their lips together teasingly. “Now that the kitchen’s complete I’ll have to take up gourmet cooking.”

**Author's Note:**

> Has a sort-of but not terribly interconnected sequel, [A Day at Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/654492).


End file.
